


say i don't give a damn, but i'm older than i am

by tellmeagain



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-11
Updated: 2020-11-11
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:29:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27498727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tellmeagain/pseuds/tellmeagain
Summary: All she can think about is how much Quinn Fabray has always belonged in pretty places like this, has always been bigger than people like Santana and places like Lima.
Relationships: Quinn Fabray/Santana Lopez
Comments: 16
Kudos: 129





	say i don't give a damn, but i'm older than i am

**Author's Note:**

> OOF. I'm not totally sure where all of these words came from; perhaps it's a result of missing Naya and being unemployed LOL. I sorta have mixed feelings about how this turned out, but I love the road trip trope and these two are so fun to write. Enjoy!
> 
> Warning, just to be safe: mentions of alcohol and vomiting

“We should just...go drive, or something.” 

“I don’t have any gas.” 

“Not _now_. I mean for your Spring Break next week.” Santana sighs further under the twin-sized comforter, a quiet laugh escaping her when Quinn swats away the fingers that begin to trace Ryan Seacrest’s hairline on her lower back. “You need to get this removed, by the way. Seriously. I’ll fund it myself.” 

“Shut up, Santana.” Quinn makes it a point to push down the cotton shirt that’s been riding up her lower back since they crawled into bed. _Fully clothed_ , of course, because when they say they’ve been sleeping together since Mr. Schue’s wedding, they really _do_ mean sleeping—save for stolen kisses on cheeks or foreheads or shoulders on the nights they’re feeling extra lonely.

She’s half asleep when Quinn asks, “Where do you wanna go?” 

“Anywhere. Away from everyone else.” 

Quinn just takes it upon herself to adjust Santana’s arm beneath her head so they can spoon. A crack about how big her head is waits to leave Santana’s lips, but the last time it slipped through, she was tossed off the bed with a loud thud, so she settles for hiding her face in Quinn’s hair instead. “Ok,” Quinn eventually agrees. “But you’re doing most of the driving.” 

*

“You two are going to kill each other.” Kurt’s ever-unwanted opinion floats through the living room as Santana’s packing the following Saturday. Clothes are strewn across couches and chairs, and she plucks a decent amount of them to toss in her duffel bag before shoving the rest back into her drawers. 

She ignores the comment, because Kurt just doesn’t get it. Just doesn’t get _them._ Hell, no one really does; whereas others may call their relationship volatile, Santana likes to use the term spontaneous. 

And that’s the thing about her and Quinn—when the two of them are on the same team, they don’t _need_ anyone else. They can rule the world just fine on their own. It comes with its fair share of fights here and there, of course it does (and somehow it’s hitting Santana just _now_ after all these years, how truly vicious she and Quinn can be), but the point still stands. When it’s the two of them against the world, Santana believes in their odds. 

So, instead of entertaining Kurt, she simply asks, “Do you want me to bring you back a name keychain or a fridge magnet?” 

Kurt rolls his eyes through a sip of coffee. “I guess a fridge magnet.” 

*

Quinn sets the navigation on her phone to Martha’s Vineyard the next morning, because she wants to go on the ferry ride and Santana wants to get wine drunk. 

Santana revs the engine to the car effortlessly. “Hey, none of your weird indie music, ok? Just because it’s about to look like a J. Crew catalog outside the window doesn’t mean it has to sound like one, too.” 

Quinn’s eye roll comes naturally, as always. “You’re so annoying.”

*

They’ve been on the road for a couple hours when they pull over at a gas station, because Quinn needs to stretch her legs and Santana needs a snack. 

They lean against the side of the car as they split a bag of Cheetos, and Quinn looks so _...East Coast_ , what with her tennis shoes, cut-off sweats, and loose-fitting shawl, that Santana feels oddly underdressed in her leggings and the Yale hoodie she swiped from Quinn’s closet weeks ago. 

“Hey, I wanted to tell you something,” she speaks up after a few trucks drive by, their engines roaring loudly. Quinn slows her chewing.

“Don’t tell me you forgot your toothbrush or something at the loft, because I’m not sharing mine,” she says pointedly.

“Ok, well, thank you so much for that,” Santana says flatly, leaving it at that because she’s not entirely in the mood to bicker at this hour. “But no, actually. I just-” A loud sigh escapes her, which prompts Quinn to move her sunglasses from the bridge of her nose to the top of her head. “I really want to be here. Like, I didn’t just suggest all of this because it’s a way to forget about Brittany or whatever. Maybe Valentine’s Day was about that, yeah, but not this.”

This look of understanding flashes across Quinn’s face. Of course it does, because Quinn always understands—regardless of whether or not Santana would actually give her credit for it. Instead of saying anything, she simply reaches down to squeeze Santana’s hand, and for that, Santana is grateful.

*

They drive around New Haven whenever Quinn wants to do something off-campus, but this is the first time Santana’s _really_ driven with her for a prolonged amount of time since the accident. It kind of makes her feel like she’s back taking driving lessons with her dad—both hands on the wheel, routinely checking her mirrors, phone out of sight. 

She wonders if it seems silly; Quinn is all but fine in the passenger’s seat making easy conversation and helping Santana with the navigation, but then an SUV will begin to merge into the lane next to them, and Santana won’t miss the way Quinn’s shoulders will tense ever so slightly and her hands will clench in her lap. The sight of it spurs uneasiness to stir deep in Santana’s stomach.

Quinn must sense this, because she brings her legs up to her chest and reaches over to place a hand on Santana’s arm. “I’m ok, San. Don’t worry,” she reassures, gently. 

“Ok,” Santana smiles a little, her muscles relaxing, then she focuses on whatever song is playing on the aux before her mind can fill with things like hospitals and breathing tubes and wheelchairs.

*

They’re boarding the ferry, it’s cold as fuck, and Santana is annoyed. It’s so crowded with families and old people that Quinn and Santana can’t get a seat and are stuck standing against one of the railings. 

“I told you to wear layers,” Quinn murmurs, programmed to capitalize on any and every told-you-so moment she encounters in her life, but all the while she opens up her shawl for Santana to nuzzle into. The warmth hits her immediately, and Quinn’s arm snakes tightly around her shoulders. “It’s pretty, isn’t it?”

Santana nods her head, leaning a little to rest it against Quinn’s cheek. It _is_ pretty, with the smattering of the clouds and the beam of the sun and the lighthouses and cottages that decorate the shoreline. 

It puts her at such ease that she complies easily when Quinn pulls her phone out of her bag to take a picture of them; smiles wide, sunglasses frames bumping together, wind-blown wisps of hair sticking out in different directions. 

*

Quinn’s cheekily poking at her side until she agrees to post one of the pictures on Instagram. Santana gives in without much convincing.

_santanalopez: Lucy Q and the coast today. And yes I’m still prettier than them both 💋_

_mercedesjones commented: My girlsss 😍_

*

She’s halfway through her second glass of wine when Quinn asks their waiter to bring them some more bread. 

“Can you slow down, Rosario? I don’t need to be taking care of you for the rest of the day.” 

“Oh, Q, always the sweet-talker,” Santana hums, but she sets her glass down because the last time she had too much to drink, Quinn was wiping her tears away with the sleeve of her knit sweater and neither of them need that happening again. “And, what? You think I’m some kind of lightweight now?” 

“I’m not taking the bait on that, but nice try.”

Santana smirks a little. “We’re _totally_ getting stupid drink together later this week, though.”

“Definitely,” Quinn agrees. Then, playfully, “After all that time with you, I’m gonna need it.” 

*

After lunch, Quinn gets them into one of the nearby lighthouses for free, with the drawl of her voice and the grace of her smile. For all of two seconds Santana was convinced the usher was going to be the one paying them.

Quinn just gasps when they make it to the top—she can be _so_ dramatic—before striding over to the metal railing a few feet away from them to get a better look at the view.

And listen, Santana’s been on the very top of cheerleading pyramids more times than she can count, but this is _different_ because there’s no mats and no spotters and it’s windy and- so _what_ if she’d rather just hang back a bit?

She watches as her friend smiles to herself, fingers splaying over her lips and hair tangling with the wind. All she can think about is how much Quinn Fabray has always belonged in pretty places like this, has always been bigger than people like Santana and places like Lima. 

Then she’s thinking _hell no_ , because Quinn’s turning around now and grinning, “San, c’mere.”

“Um, not a chance, Fabray.” 

Quinn laughs and wraps her shawl tighter around her stomach. “C’mon, it’s not that bad. I’ll hold your hand.” 

“You’re a horrible bargainer,” Santana grimaces, but she’s taking small steps forward and tightly enveloping her hand in Quinn’s anyway. 

It’s so windy that she has to take her sunglasses off, and she brings their joined hands close to her chest for no clear reason other than it feels natural, makes her feel safer. Like there’s no way she can fall now. 

And admittedly, when it comes to Quinn, maybe Santana means that in more ways than one. 

*

A half hour later, they discover that what’s referred to as Island Alpaca on the local directory is exactly what it sounds like. 

“Do you think they bite?” Quinn timidly grabs onto the back of Santana’s sweatshirt as the guide opens the gate to let them in, and Santana just laughs—partly because she’s not the scaredy-cat this time but also because she kind of feels like she’s in a fever dream. 

“Q, they would definitely not allow visitors to roam in an open field with thirty alpacas if they did. Look at how cute this little guy is.” Santana coos as this tiny alpaca slowly saunters over to them, the small stature of the animal sorta reminding her of Rachel. She voices this out loud to relax Quinn, who appeases her with a laugh but doesn’t loosen her grip. 

After a few minutes of watching Santana pet the alpaca without losing an arm, Quinn finally finds it in her to do the same, nervously chewing on her bottom lip. “They _are_ pretty cute, I guess.”

“See? We should name this one. What do you think?”

“He looks like a Norman,” Quinn decides, and Santana lets out a laugh. 

“Hey, Norm,” she entertains. She pulls out her phone to take a selfie of the three of them; Norman’s teeth sticking out of his mouth while Santana and Quinn try their best to mimic him by jutting out their front teeth, too.

“What if we hurt his feelings?” Quinn frowns, reaching out to pet him again, and Santana shrugs. 

“I feel like he’s a good sport.”

When the farm closes, the two of them stroll along a row of gingerbread cottages on their way back to the ferry. Each house is a methodic splattering of pink, purple, blue, yellow—a burst of life and energy, and everything Lima isn’t. They take pictures of the other in front of their favorite ones; Santana really likes this bright red two-story while Quinn marvels at a melodic yellow one with white trimming just a couple doors down.

“I wonder which one Norman would like.”

“The swanky purple number down there for _sure_.”

*

“You take the longest showers, I swear,” Quinn muses in their motel room that night. “My burrito bowl is getting cold.”

Santana just smirks, continuing to wring her towel around the tips of her hair. “Join me next time, then.”

Quinn cracks a smile at that, bringing a hand to the back of her neck and rubbing at it lightly. “Just get over here and eat with me.”

Santana leaves the subject matter as is and drops onto the bed with a plop, the queen-sized mattress acting as a luxury compared to the typical twin-XL in Quinn’s dorm room. 

“To a good first day?” Quinn’s holding up two tortilla chips dipped in guacamole. Santana takes one with a laugh.

“Yeah, Q. A good first day.”

They eat mostly in silence, save for Santana telling Quinn to keep her crumbs from spilling into the sheets and Quinn telling Santana that the guests next door can hear her smacking her food. Santana’s annoyed for all of three minutes after that before they start helping each other pick outfits for tomorrow. 

Santana, admittedly, really likes spending nights with Quinn. She likes being there when Quinn takes off her make-up, when Quinn trades one of her Lily Pulitzer looking outfits for an old t-shirt and cotton shorts, when Quinn puts in her retainer before bed because _God forbid her teeth revert to the monstrosities they were pre-braces—_ her words, not Santana’s. She likes how they always say goodnight to each other, and how Quinn will press a light kiss to Santana’s shoulder sometimes before letting Santana kiss her forehead.

She likes not having to question anything they’re doing or anything they are (or _could be)_ , because when it comes to each other, neither of them have ever been the ones to think too much about anything.

But then Quinn will say something in this low, breathy voice like, “I _do_ still think about Valentine’s Day sometimes,” before rolling over and tucking the covers beneath her chin, and Santana will lay awake until the tug in her stomach goes away.

*

They’re up early the next morning to take on New Hampshire, their first stop nearly four hours away in Portsmouth and their second one another couple hours away in Woodstock. 

Santana wasn’t all that juiced about driving into towns that sounded as irrelevant as Lima, Ohio, but Quinn showed her pictures of this ice castle exhibit in Woodstock that’s closing for the season this weekend, and yeah, it looked pretty cool. As for why they’re going to Portsmouth, Quinn was just about, “ _dying_ to have lunch at Market Square.” As if that’s just something people have written down on their bucket list. 

Quinn agrees to drive the first leg, so while she fills up the gas tank, Santana runs into the convenience store to buy them cups of coffee—both black, no sweeteners, because that’s how they like it. Fitting, really.

“Careful, it’s hot,” Santana mumbles as she hands one cup to Quinn, who accepts it with a grumbled _thanks_. Neither of them have been much of morning people—if they don’t set alarms back in New York or New Haven, they’ll stay asleep until noon—so Santana’s not really sure how good of an idea it was to leave the motel this early. But alas.

*

She falls asleep at some point during the drive, her head slumped against the window. 

When her mind tiptoes consciousness, she refrains from stretching and keeps her eyes shut because of what she hears—Quinn’s singing to whatever song’s crooning from her phone.

It’s all so...dumb and cliche, the entire situation, but Quinn hasn’t really let anyone hear her sing after high school—save for when they were back in Lima for Thanksgiving—and nowadays, Santana will get lucky if she hears it when Quinn’s in the shower. So, gawk at her all you want, but she loves Quinn’s voice.

She stays that way for a few songs, then her phone accidentally slips down to the ground from between her legs with a loud thud, and the singing stops.

*

“You said neither of us could fall asleep on whoever’s driving,” Quinn frowns once they get to Portsmouth.

“I know, Q. I’m sorry,” Santana says genuinely, letting Quinn pull her close and hook their arms together in the way that she does. “When I drive later, you can snore all you want.”

“I don’t snore.”

“Yes, you do. Lunch?”

Quinn goes to check something on her phone, then nods her head. “I know just the place.”

They’re sliding into a booth at an upscale restaurant that offers brunch ten minutes later. 

“Did we come here just so you can order some fancy bacon or something?” Santana flips through the menu, not really understanding all of these French words and just looking for something as simple as blueberry waffles. Would they let her order off of the kids’ menu?

Quinn just sighs and peers at Santana from atop her own menu. “Daddy’s monthly allowance dropped into my bank account this morning, and I decided we’re capitalizing on it this week.”

“Hold up, you get monthly allowances from your dad? Why didn’t you tell me this before? And how come you still make me buy the cheap wine at the liquor store?”

“Not exactly my favorite subject, San,” Quinn says, and Santana sinks down in her seat a little, resigning.

“Sorry,” she mutters, and Quinn just nudges her foot under the table—her way of saying that it’s ok.

*

They go shopping afterwards to walk off some of the calories before being stuck in the car for another couple hours. 

Santana buys fridge magnets for the loft and Quinn gets a couple of keychains with their initials. ( _“I asked, like, three employees to check the back and there’s none that say_ Santana _.” “It’s ok, Q.”)_

When they find themselves browsing through a rack of postcards, Santana considers getting one to write to Brittany. Ultimately, she decides against it, because she doesn’t even know what she’d say.

“Hey, what do you think of this?” Quinn’s busying herself with a bin of t-shirts now that look like they were extracted from a white grandmother’s wardrobe, holding up a bright yellow one with _Portsmouth, NH_ embroidered across the chest with the skyline scribbled just underneath.

“Oh, _very_ Fashion Week,” Santana allows a laugh when Quinn sizes it against her torso. “Do they have one in my size?”

And that’s how they walk out of the gift shop with matching keychains and matching t-shirts—turns out they _are_ more alike than either of them would ever admit.

“Why are you like this?” she asks when Quinn has them posing next to this stupid _Welcome to Portsmouth_ sign.

“It’s a historical town, Santana.” The tone of Quinn’s voice practically screams _duh,_ and she beams when a woman walking by offers to take a picture for them. “Smile.”

Quinn’s engrossed with her camera roll when the woman taps Santana on the arm and whispers, “You got yourself a good one.”

A natural laugh threatens to bubble its way up Santana’s throat, but then she glances over at her friend, absentmindedly tapping her boots together as she peers down at her phone, and all that comes out is a polite smile. She turns to the lady and decides to play along. “She tells me the exact same thing.”

*

When they get to the ice castles, Santana pops up the hood of her parka and Quinn slips on her mittens. They’re outside for all of twenty minutes before Quinn’s nose starts to turn pink. 

“Don’t laugh.” She scrunches it as Santana does exactly that, bringing the palms of her hands up to Quinn’s cheeks in an attempt to raise her body temperature. 

“And I’m supposed to believe you were the bigger ice queen between the two of us,” she teases, and Quinn fights a smile before lightly swatting Santana’s hands away. 

“Whatever. I need hot chocolate.” 

She buys them two cups—extra marshmallows for Santana—before they start strolling the grounds. Quinn stops at nearly every ice sculpture they pass and Santana admires icicles before Quinn’s tugging her away carefully—“I don’t trust those things for one second.”

And they take _so_ many pictures, mimicking ice sculptures and showing off their hot chocolate mugs and posing under intricate archways that Santana’s not sure how much storage is left on her phone after all is said and done. 

The sun goes down before they even realize it, and Santana only notices because LED lights start flashing different colors in each of the ice fixtures, including the bench they’re sitting on. “Holy crap.”

Quinn laughs next to her, reaching into Santana’s lap to warm her hands in between her own. “Who would’ve thought we’d be in a place like this? _Together_ , nonetheless.”

Santana shakes her head in amusement. “We’ve kind of been the worst self-proclaimed best friends, haven’t we?”

“You’re not totally wrong,” Quinn smirks. “Still, though. You’re the only person with the guts to tell me the things I need to hear. Granted, you’re a bit more blunt than I’d like, but...I don’t know. That means something to me.”

Santana lets her head drop onto Quinn’s shoulder, and she can’t help but acknowledge that the girl has a point. The way they express their love and concern for each other is nothing short of twisted, but it’s there. Maybe it always has been. “I don’t even know if I would’ve made it to New York without you,” she admits. Because, yeah, Brittany was the actual _push_ to get her there, but maybe her and Quinn’s squabble in the choir room during Thanksgiving break was the catalyst.

“Does this mean I don’t have to apologize for slapping you?” Quinn jokes, because serious conversations between the two of them have an expiration time of about three minutes, and Santana tips her head back in laughter.

“Easy there, Fabray.”

*

Quinn posts a photo of the two of them posing together on what looks like a queen’s chair; chins high, smirks intact.

“That filter is so ugly.”

“No it _isn’t_ , Santana.”

“Listen, if I’m going on your Instagram, I’m looking hot as shit. The saturation totally washes out my ass.”

“Please, like you know what saturation even _means._ ” 

*

_q__fabray: Still the HBICs 👯♀️_

_santanalopez commented: and nobody f’in forget it 💅🏼_

*

“That’s a horrible song.” Quinn disapproves of Santana’s jukebox selection at the diner they find themselves at an hour later. Santana shoots her an exasperated look.

“Don’t be a music snob right now,” she mutters, too tired to admire Quinn’s brutal honesty.

“Whatever. What do you want to do tomorrow?” Quinn asks her, and Santana starts to absentmindedly play with her straw wrapper.

“Beach day?”

Quinn has this pensive look on her face, and knowing her as well as she does, Santana can just _tell_ she’s fighting the urge to say something like, “We’re driving all across the East Coast just to do nothing on the beach when we could’ve done that in New Haven?” in that overly-unimpressed tone she undoubtedly inherited from both her parents. Instead, all Quinn says is, “Ok, sure.”

Feeling encouraged, Santana adds, “And I want little spoon tonight. All this driving today gots me tired.” She flashes an overly-sweet smile for good measure. 

Quinn cocks a single eyebrow, then she’s smiling. “Fine.”

*

Tomorrow, they’re driving two and a half hours to Portland, Maine. Given the fact they mutually agreed they wanted to sleep in, Santana anticipates they’ll get there sometime late afternoon.

Quinn’s basically asleep by the time Santana crawls into bed, and Santana sighs, content and exhausted, when Quinn’s arm slings around her waist and Quinn’s lips rest against her shoulder.

“Goodnight,” she says quietly, and the blonde responds by humming, then by tugging their bodies closer.

When she hears soft snores muffled into her hair, Santana thinks maybe there’s a universe in which she happily does this with Quinn every night and every day, and maybe it could be _this_ universe because—isn’t that pretty much what they do now?

But Santana has never been one to want to define anything other than when it came to Brittany. And if she were to start again _now,_ with the way she and Quinn share a bed every night and kiss each other’s hair and hold each other’s hands—well, there’s not much to read between the lines, and Santana doesn’t totally know how she feels about that.

All she does know is that Quinn Fabray is lacing their fingers together in a New Hampshire motel room during their week-long road trip together, and that isn’t something she’d be able to say without grimacing as recently as two months ago. 

But here she is, bringing their hands close to her chest, and- 

Yeah. No use in defining anything. 

*

She wakes up the next morning with the tips of Quinn’s hair tickling her collarbone. _11:21am_ shines up at her when she clicks on her phone.

“Hey,” she swats at Quinn’s leg, and Quinn responds by rolling over, grabbing the spare pillow at the foot of the bed, and placing it over her face. 

“Later,” is muffled against the fabric of the pillow. Santana groans loudly as she stretches, somewhat understanding where the girl is coming from. A small part of her wouldn’t mind spending the rest of the day cocooned in bed, but checkout is soon and traffic could build on the highway, and- 

“C’mon, Lucy Q,” she softly pries at the pillow atop Quinn’s head, revealing a tangled mess of blonde locks. She pushes some out of the way to press a lazy kiss to Quinn’s forehead. Then she tells herself she’s getting way too soft, so she’s swinging her legs off the bed and heading into the bathroom in record time. “Get your ass out of bed.”

*

Quinn drives the two and a half hours to Portland, and she giggles when Santana sticks her torso out the window to wave goodbye to New Hampshire. 

“Maybe I should just move out here or something,” she muses, fingers drumming along the steering wheel. 

“You’re gonna get out of Bumble-fuck, Ohio and come to Bumble-fuck, New Hampshire?”

Quinn just entertains her with a laugh. “At least no one gives a shit about me out here. I can do whatever I want.”

Santana peers out the window, lips rolling together. “And what exactly does that entail?”

“I don’t know,” Quinn says, slowly. After a couple beats of silence, “Being happy, I guess.”

“Hm,” Santana acknowledges, mostly because she doesn’t really know what else to say. It’s just, the thought of Quinn being somewhere Santana isn’t…

It’s, admittedly, not the most appealing concept in the world. But it’s nobody’s business to know that she thinks that.

*

They lay out a blanket in the sand to sit on, and grab another couple from the trunk of Quinn’s car to drape over their shoulders as they eat their lunch.

“How about them?” Santana tilts her chin towards an older couple strolling along the shoreline.

Quinn chews thoughtfully on a crouton. “Hmm. I think they’re both each other’s second marriages. They’re empty-nesters, and they just moved here from Philly. Newly-retired. Their anniversary is coming up, and he’s totally planning a dinner with a view of the bay.”

“Ever the romantic, you are.” Santana’s tone is only half-serious. 

Quinn just smirks proudly. “Ok, um...them.”

Santana’s eyes flicker over to a group of college-looking friends not too far away. “They go to some liberal arts school in-state,” she decides. “Those two guys with the frisbee are totally in the closet. Banging in secret.” Quinn rolls her eyes at that. “And that couple sharing the bag of chips has discussed engagement, but they got a good four months left in them, at most.”

“Charming.”

“What can I say?” Santana starts to scan their surroundings. When no one piques her interest enough, “What about...what about us?”

“Us?” Quinn cocks her eyebrows in that perfected way she’s done since that first Cheerios practice the summer before freshman year when Sue doubted her back-handspring. 

“Yeah. What do you see?”

Quinn peers down at her lap, amused. “I see two people who still drive each other _insane_ ,” she enunciates, and Santana breathes out a laugh. “They know how to get under each other’s skin better than anyone, but they’re also much more than that now. They…” she trails off, hesitating. “They love each other, in some sense. And they’re gonna be in each other’s lives for a long time.” After a moment, she adds quietly, “Or at least I want them to be.”

A smile threatens to stretch across Santana’s lips, so she bites down on her lip to keep it from getting too big. “Me too, Q,” is all she says, and she means it more than she can possibly express. Then, she clears her throat. “Ok, your turn to choose.”

They go for a few more rounds until they run out of interesting subjects, and once their lunches are finished, they slip off their shoes, roll up their jeans, and sink their feet into the sand.

Santana feels... _free_ , in a sense—not shackled down by some image to put forth or some role to encapsulate as she cracks up filming Quinn scare a flock of seagulls by running towards them at full speed. Quinn’s barely able to contain her laughter either as she walks back towards Santana with a grin. The bun that was neatly pulled together at the nape of her neck is currently holding on for dear life, so Quinn reaches back to pull out the hair tie, and blonde locks fall in tangled waves around her shoulders.

Everything about the moment is carefree and nonsensical and all the other things Quinn and Santana aren’t supposed to be.

Santana proves she can do perfect cartwheels in sand, Quinn gathers seashells as they walk side-by-side along the shore, and Santana decides that she loves Portland, Maine.

*

As with most sweet moments, whatever magical spell fell upon them at the beach is broken when they start bickering next to a churro cart not long after.

“Literally why are you getting your panties in a twist? I just want one bite.”

“It’s the _principle_ , Santana. I asked if you wanted one, and you said no.”

“I thought this was just part of our relationship.”

“What?”

“Like, me mooching off of you and stuff.”

Quinn rolls her eyes before fishing a $5 bill out of her coat pocket. “Get your own.”

*

They spend the rest of the afternoon strolling the downtown area and stopping whenever Quinn wants to take pictures—which is a lot of times. Seriously, the woman pretty much gets off on cobblestone streets and colorful buildings. Santana lets it unfold without much resistance because maybe it _is_ pretty or whatever, and it’s fun seeing Quinn all passionate about getting the right shots ( _“San, stand next to those flowers? Ok, now look here. Stop making that face. Ok, good. Oh, that’s such a good one.”)_ . It takes a little more effort to get Quinn to actually be in the pictures _with_ her, but in the end, they all turn out really well.

“Why don’t you get into photography or something?” Santana asks her when they take a break from walking so Quinn can rest her knee. (And the fact that last year’s accident is still having aftereffects scares Santana if she thinks about it for too long, but to hell if she’ll ever voice that out loud.) 

Quinn sighs, stretching her legs. “Where is that gonna get me?”

“God, you really are your parents’ daughter,” Santana mutters, undeterred by the glare that’s sent her way. “You’re allowed to do things because you like them, Q,” she says. “Get a real camera. You’d be really good at it.”

“You think?” 

“Yeah,” Santana says. And because she is who she is, she _has_ to add, “And I’m always right.”

“Ok, sure,” Quinn plays along with that with a laugh. Then, more seriously, “I’ll think about it.”

“The pictures probably won’t be as nice as when I’m in them, but, you know.”

“ _Ok,_ Santana.”

*

Quinn books a dinner reservation at a seaside bistro only to discover it’s across the bay, so she and Santana hop on a quick ferry ride to Peaks Island. There’s still about twenty minutes to kill once they reach the docks, and _that_ is precisely how Quinn and Santana find themselves at the local Umbrella Cover Museum. And yes, just like Island Alpaca, it's exactly what it sounds like.

The place is no bigger than Santana’s living room at home, a lady is playing the accordion near the windows, and hundreds of colorful umbrella covers adorn the walls. It kind of feels like when Santana took too many edibles in Puck’s basement sophomore year of high school, except this time Quinn is here and giggling next to her.

They take pictures, because if they’re gonna be in a place like this, people are _going_ to know about it, and the next thing Santana knows, there are twenty additions to her camera roll of Quinn posing with miscellaneous umbrella covers.

The Quinn and Santana in high school would’ve sneered at a place like this, declaring it a waste of space because who gives a second thought to something as minute and insignificant as _umbrella covers?_ The owner going to town on the accordion would’ve also been on the receiving end of unnecessary barbs, no doubt.

But this is the Quinn and Santana _now_ ; the Quinn and Santana who listen with polite smiles as aforementioned owner—her name is Nancy, they learn—walks them through the history of the museum. The Quinn and Santana who alternate their weekends between New York and New Haven and text each other every day they’re apart and decide to go on spontaneous road trips.

Whoever Quinn and Santana were before, they’re only a fraction of those people now, and Santana’s still trying to navigate where exactly that’s taking them.

At the moment, in a literal sense, it’s taking them to dinner, where Quinn watches Santana down a mini beer flight and they split this fancy seafood pasta dish. When olive oil splashes onto Quinn’s sweater, she glares, Santana laughs at her, and maybe in some ways, they actually haven’t changed _that_ much.

*

They huddle together over Quinn’s phone as they eat dessert and open up Google Maps to figure out a plan for tomorrow. 

“Is that Canada right there? Let’s go to Canada.”

“We don’t have our passports, San. And we should probably start heading in the direction back towards New Haven.”

“Fine. A city? As much as I love beach towns, I miss normal civilization.”

“Yeah, I guess you got a point.”

“...Boston?”

“Boston, it is.”

* 

When Santana wakes up the next morning, Quinn is out on the balcony—which would be less weird if the view in front of her wasn’t the other wing of the motel. 

So she slips on her glasses, tosses on the sweater crumpled in a ball on the floor next to the side of the bed, and pads outside. Quinn’s angling her face away in an instant, and if Santana wasn’t half-asleep, she probably would’ve heard the tiny sniffle of her nose. 

“What are you doing?” she asks, her eyes straining against the sun. Quinn shakes her head. 

“Nothing,” she says quietly. “Just couldn’t fall back asleep earlier.”

“Well, can you come back inside? You look all...weird and emo out here by yourself.” 

“Yeah, whatever.” Quinn takes an extra moment to herself before her shoulders pull back and her hand is on her hip. A shift in demeanor. “Hey, do you wanna get wasted tonight?” 

_That_ pulls Santana out of her slumber, and she swears that she raises her eyebrows so high they start to bleed into her hairline. “Always,” she laughs a little, slightly confused. 

“Good,” Quinn says simply before making her way back inside their room. “Me, too.”

*

There’s some shift in Quinn’s energy that Santana can’t quite put into words—yeah, that happens sometimes, whatever—but brunch goes mostly without a hitch. Quinn orders an omelette, Santana gets waffles, and they split their sides of fruit; Santana likes the grapes and cantaloupe, Quinn gravitates towards the honeydew and blueberries, and they rock-paper-scissors over the last strawberry slice. Things are normal.

But still, there are certain moments like when they’re waiting for the check that Quinn will get caught in a blank stare for a millisecond too long, or she’ll be preoccupied with _something_ on her phone until Santana’s tossing a crumpled straw wrapper at her and demanding her attention back, and Santana feels like she has to reassess the room.

When Quinn takes care of the check and hands Santana the car keys, the window to voice any concerns is closed.

A comfortable silence envelops the two hour drive. Santana hums quietly to the songs that come up on her playlist and Quinn cracks the windows open, outstretching her right arm and leaning her head out the side of the car just so. Her hair blows everywhere, gusts of wind invade the spaces between her long, relaxed fingers, and Santana takes a mental picture that she hopes will last forever.

Some elapsed amount of time later, the once-serene silence starts to fill her mind with things like unaccepting abuelas and beaming ex-girlfriends, so she selfishly pulls Quinn from her stupor and asks if they can start up a round of the alphabet game.

Quinn coincidentally seems grateful for the distraction, though Santana can’t completely tell.

*

Boston is bright and loud when they check into their hotel—yes, hotel—because Russell Fabray’s money is good for _something_ and Quinn was insistent. Santana figured it was about time before Little Miss New Haven reached her threshold for motel-hopping anyway.

Quinn plops down on the bed dramatically and lets out this sigh like _she’s_ been the one driving, and when her eyes flit closed and her fingers curl around the white sheets, Santana decides it’s time to bite the bullet and takes a seat next to her.

“What are you thinking about today?” she asks, the small amount of decency she’s obtained since high school preventing her from instead asking what the hell is stuck up Quinn’s ass.

“Mmm,” Quinn ponders out loud. “Nothing.” When she’s met with a gaze that’s meant to call her out on her bullshit, “Seriously.” She pats Santana’s thigh as if that’ll solidify her point. “I just didn’t sleep that well last night.”

Santana sighs. The girl is definitely bluffing, but if there’s one thing she and Quinn are good at, it’s not forcing each other to unpack the shit they don’t want to. Probably because neither of them want to have to take on the role of comforter. “Alright, blondie.” She pushes herself up from the bed and treats herself to a pack of peanuts in the tray just above the mini fridge.

“You know, you have to pay extra for those, Santana.” 

...and _there’s_ the Quinn she knows.

*

They go shopping, squeezing into one of the extra-large dressing rooms at H&M with what seems like one of everything the store has to offer. 

“Are you _sure_ about that dress?” Quinn asks in this voice that makes her sound too much like her mother, and Santana makes sure that her eye roll can be seen through the mirror.

“Do you think it does my butt justice?”

“Mm, not really.”

“Then it ain’t the one.” Santana slips the dress off in one fluid motion and grabs the next one in the lineup from a blushing blonde who’s acting like they don’t undress in front of each other every night. Or that they, you know, slept together multiple times.

“You’re not planning on bringing someone back to the hotel room, are you?” Quinn helps zip up the next dress; this tight black number that barely reaches Santana’s mid-thigh. “Because I’m not sleeping in the bathtub.”

Santana can barely breathe in this outfit. Seriously, did she misread the size of this thing? Still, she finds it in her to spin around and tease, “I don’t know. Depends how _horny_ I am, Q.” It’s not meant to sound sexy or serious, and she’s laughing now because of course Quinn flushes anyway.

“Keep your voice down,” she reprimands, her body shuffling under the pile of clothes that has accumulated on her lap. “We’re not the only ones here, you know.”

“That was the point,” Santana practically sing-songs—Quinn is too easy to bother, sometimes. “Now help me out of this thing.”

The winning outfit consists of these shiny, skin-tight black leggings and a bandeau that does _wonders_ showing off Santana’s curves. She makes sure to tease Quinn for staring before they switch positions. 

Quinn is as thorough with trying on clothes as she is with anything else in her life, observing herself in the mirror for so long that Santana would complain if she didn’t completely mind the view. Something about Quinn, resident sundress girl, in form-fitting outfits is just _so_ —

 _“San.”_ An impatient syllable pulls her from her train of thought, and a certain signature hand-on-hip stares her right in the face. “What about this one?”

Santana takes her time scanning up and down. Twice, for good measure. “Maybe the pregnancy _did_ do something for your boobs.”

Quinn shoulders stiffen for a split second, but she recovers quickly with a smirk that reminds Santana a little too much of Valentine’s Day. “Good.”

*

They both want to see more of the city but they’re too lazy to walk, so they spend the rest of the afternoon on the second story of one of those double-decker tours that let you hop on and off whenever you want. Santana balances all of their shopping bags in her lap, and she watches a confused Quinn try to follow along with the tour guide while reading the physical map he handed out to everyone on board. 

“How the hell did Lewis and Clark do it?” she huffs, and Santana finds herself smirking at the furrow of Quinn’s brow. It reminds her of the semester she tutored Quinn in Spanish—she was pretty much a lost cause when it came to conjugating irregular verbs, but after Santana frustratedly cussed her out in Spanish, they pulled it together and Quinn finished the class with a triumphant B+.

Santana finds herself falling asleep against Quinn’s shoulder when the tour guide starts rattling off facts about Boston’s architectural stylings, and every once in a while, she feels Quinn nodding her head, clearly engaged in whatever’s being said—she’s such a history buff, and Santana finds it both weird and endearing.

They only get off when the bus stops a block away from a pub that looks like it could do a hearty job of filling up their stomachs before they drink later. Santana’s legs are definitely asleep from how long they’ve been crossed, and she pretty much has to hold onto Quinn’s arm as they make their way down the stairs of the bus.

The pub is tiny and sticky, but the burgers they order are to _die_ for, and Santana nearly spits out her water when their waiter comes by to check on them and Quinn has a streak of mayo across her left cheek. 

The hotel is a ten minute cab ride away, and Santana queues up her _gettin ready_ playlist as she and Quinn start to do their make-up. It’s somewhat nostalgic of freshman year of high school, back when they treated each other like best friends are supposed to and didn’t sell the other out for cheerleading captaincies. 

Santana holds Quinn’s chin in her hands as she helps her apply a layer of eyeliner, and the slight curl of Quinn’s lips lets Santana know that she remembers those days, too.

*

It’s been so long since the two of them went out together like this—sexy outfits, smoky make-up, the whole shabang really—that Santana’s willing to buy the first round. “Two Jägerbombs, please.”

Quinn scrunches her nose from where she’s pretty much pressed up against Santana’s side. “Diving right in, huh?”

Santana just gives her a smirk and a shrug, having to raise her voice to overpower the music and chatter. “I like to go fast.” Then, just to give Quinn a little push of motivation, “You _can_ handle it...right, Fabray?”

It does the trick—really, there was no doubt in Santana’s mind it would—and Quinn’s narrowing her eyes before making herself more room in front of the bar counter. Any protests or complaints about her sharp elbows are ignored in favor of the two drinks placed in front of them. 

Quinn breathes deeply next to her. “To Spring Break?”

“To Spring Break,” Santana agrees. They tap their shot glasses together before dropping them into the cups of Red Bull and bringing the drinks up to their lips, downing it quickly. 

And, of course, they slam it back onto the counter simultaneously. A group of guys start to enthusiastically cheer next to them, but Santana just giggles at the way Quinn swipes at her lower lip with the back of her hand. 

“Those will always be disgusting,” she shakes her head, but she’s laughing now and already trying to flag the bartender down again. “Another round. Tequila with limes.”

“Shit, Q,” Santana’s mouth almost sours on command. Because, listen, she can take her liquor just as well as the next guy—hell, maybe even better—but something about tequila in particular makes her stomach twist in the way it’s not supposed to. 

Quinn just leans in closer to her and taunts, “You _can_ handle it...right, Lopez?”

…

This bitch.

*

After their fourth round, Santana takes one look at the glaze that’s already settling in Quinn’s eyes and urges them away from the bar and out onto the dance floor.

“Santana, I need _more_ ,” Quinn frowns, and she’s abandoned any effort of making sure Santana can hear her so Santana has to lean her ear against Quinn’s lips as she repeats the words.

“We’ll come back,” she reassures. “I promise. Remember that thing we call ‘pacing ourselves’?”

“Fine.” Quinn runs a hand through her hair to muss it a little—which, ok, unnecessarily hot—but Santana just clasps their hands together and drags them both out to dance. “Are you drunk?” Quinn asks as their bodies move easily together. Her hands settle onto Santana’s waist while Santana’s arms wind around Quinn’s neck.

“Getting there,” Santana laughs. Tipsy Quinn is something else. She shoos away some dude that tries to dance with her from behind. “You?”

“Who knows,” Quinn shrugs loosely. “I just...I like feeling this way.”

“And what way is that?”

“Like…” Quinn’s gaze trails up to the ceiling as she thinks, her train of thought seemingly interrupted when she starts singing the chorus to whatever rap song is blaring over the speakers. “Like I can do fucking anything.”

Santana cocks an amused eyebrow at that, because other than their night together in the hotel room, she can count on one hand how many times she’s heard Quinn drop the F bomb so freely. “Say that again, Q?”

Quinn just grins and pulls Santana closer, raising a victorious hand in the air. _“Fucking. Anything.”_

*

They eventually make their way back to the bar, just like Santana promised—because the dance floor gets too sweaty and frankly, she’s tired of shooing away middle-aged men who obviously came here by themselves just to scope out the lady scene. She nearly slaps a handsy one who looks a little too much like Mr. Schue, but luckily for him, Quinn unknowingly pulls her away and runs the tips of her fingers down Santana’s arm as she rhythmically sways to the music because, “ _God_ , I love Rihanna.”

Santana’s found that she learns something new every time she and Quinn drink together. It’s like the alcohol is what melts away the layers of Quinn that work overtime to shield her actual thoughts and feelings.

So when this Boston University jock tries to flirt his way into buying her a drink, Santana can’t help but laugh at the slight scowl on her friend’s face.

Still, Quinn is Quinn, which means she can play up the flirtatious looks and sultry smiles when it entails a prize, and fifteen minutes later, she and Santana are _both_ enjoying free drinks with the buyer nowhere to be found.

“I always knew you were an evil genius,” she commends, and Quinn just triumphantly lifts her shoulder with a mischievous slant of her lips.

“Years of practice.”

*

Two hours and who the hell _knows_ how many AMFs and bathroom trips later, Santana finally notices the way her head starts to spin; a signal to slow down, at least for now. 

Her companion, on the other hand, is already flirting her way into another free drink just to her left. What was once fascination is slowly morphing into concern, so Santana says something she’s pretty sure she’s never had to say to Quinn in her life. “Hey, maybe you should slow down.”

Quinn just dismisses her with the swat of her hand. “Don’t worry, San, he’ll cover for yours, too.”

“No, that- that’s not what I meant.” Santana rises from the barstool she’s been perched on, but that proves to be a mistake, and she all but leans against Quinn’s back for better balance. “I think we should head back soon.”

Quinn’s too busy downing another shot the bartender hands her with a dopey grin— _Jesus,_ she’s got a jawline—and the glass lands back on the counter with an accomplished thud. “If you don’t drink the one I ordered you, then I will.” She can barely keep herself upright while sitting down, so Santana shoots the bartender a dangerous look. 

“If you want to keep both of those hands, dough boy, think twice before pouring another,” she says pointedly, and when he moves onto another patron with a huff, Quinn swivels in her seat so she and Santana are face-to-face.

“San,” she says again, tugging on Santana’s top to pull her closer. “Hi.”

“Hey, Q.” The growing concern for Quinn seems to be sobering up Santana at a quicker rate than usual, so she’s able to stay on her feet without toppling over. “Let’s just go back, c’mon.” 

“Do you remember when we had sex?” Quinn, deciding to remember just now that they’re in the middle of a loud bar, practically _screams_ it, and Santana flips off groups of men nearby shooting them curious glances.

“Yeah, I do.” She curls her fingers around Quinn’s elbows to help hoist her up when the blonde leans in close to her ear and husks breathily,

“I really want to do it again.”

Santana’s throat goes dry then, and she forgets how to swallow—turns out the combination of dehydration and Quinn’s sex voice isn’t her best friend right now. “Quinn-”

“You want it, too. Don’t you?” Quinn’s voice is back to its normal octave, and she starts bringing her hands from Santana’s back to the sides of her neck then up to her face. 

Santana just pulls them away, reluctantly and gently. “I mean, yeah. Of course I do. But...not like this, Q. You know that.” God, why is _she_ the more sober one right now?

Quinn’s face hardens then, yet another shift in her demeanor that Santana can’t keep up with, and she’s pushing Santana away by her shoulders. “Yeah,” she mutters. “‘Cause you can never just _be_ there for me when I need you, right?” 

She shoves past Santana with a bump of their shoulders, a stumbling mess as she makes her way towards the front doors, and Santana just stands there for a second, dumbfounded, because _where the actual_ fuck _did that come from?_

Then she remembers Quinn is a wasted mess making her way onto the streets of Boston by herself at one in the morning, so she’s sprinting after her, breathless by the time she’s able to catch up with her at the end of the block and grab a hold of her arm. “Quinn, what the _fuck?_ ”

The blonde must’ve started crying between the time she stormed out of the bar and now, because her eyeliner starts to streak down her cheeks as she just shoves Santana away. Again. “I needed you.” She points a strong finger in front of Santana’s face, her jaw clenching as if preparing her to spit out whatever she’s about to say, then she’s shaking her head. “Santana, I _needed_ you.” 

A small part of Santana wants to cower, because (a) as much as Quinn gets pissed with her, she almost never _yells_ , and (b) she’s getting chewed out in the middle of one of the city’s busiest streets. It’s a miracle they haven’t been approached by a cop or bouncer yet.

“When I got pregnant, when my parents kicked me out, when Finn dumped me, when I went _insane_ the beginning of senior year _._ I needed you. So fuck you for never being there.” Quinn’s practically hysterical now, still attempting to push at Santana’s shoulders while Santana tries to wipe the horrified look off her face and slowly grab at her friend’s wrists. 

“Quinn,” she just breathes out lamely, the way she does whenever she doesn’t know what to say or how to react to something. She’s fighting tears of her own now, and shit, she probably looks so _stupid_ being this affected at Quinn’s words, but if there’s one thing that will tear her apart from the inside out, it’s the confirmation that she was never the friend Quinn needed her to be. Figuring that fighting back or defending herself won’t do either of them any good, she just waits for Quinn’s breathing to slow before asking gently, “Will you walk back to the hotel with me? Please?”

Quinn just stands there for a few seconds, her expression blank. She slowly shuts her eyes, then nods her head, silently letting Santana wrap an arm around her shoulders while the other hooks around her arm to keep them both steady for the two blocks they need to walk. 

Her head lulls onto Santana’s shoulder as they make their way through the lobby and into the elevator—the couple that Santana had to ask to wait for the next one looked confused as fuck but thankfully asked no questions—and while Quinn’s hiccuping quietly as a result from the crying, Santana knows the screaming is over. However, the conversation that’s inevitably coming is probably gonna be much harder, so yeah, there’s _that_ to look forward to.

She manages to get Quinn to sit on the side of the bed while she helps her slip her shoes off, but the second she turns her back to set them by the door, Quinn’s already sprinting into the bathroom and puking into the toilet. 

_...Well._ At least that’s being taken care of sooner rather than later. 

She digs through Quinn’s luggage until she finds the t-shirt Quinn wears to bed before swiping a water bottle and following her into the bathroom, using the hair tie around her wrist to pull her friend’s hair back into a loose ponytail. 

Quinn yakks... _a lot_. As in, if the circumstances were any different, this would be the perfect time to crack a joke about how she’s destroying the hotel’s plumbing. But Santana has a brain (and a heart) so she settles for taking a seat behind the other girl and rubbing at her back whenever she takes a break to catch her breath again. 

It’s twenty minutes later when Quinn seems like she’s done, slumping her back against the bathtub tiredly. 

“C’mon, let’s get you out of that dress,” Santana urges, and it’s not totally lost on her that she probably would’ve been saying that in a completely different context had she taken up Quinn’s offer at the bar, but whatever. _Priorities_ , Santana.

It takes awhile for Quinn to slip out of the dress without standing, but Santana takes it as somewhat of a victory she can even move on her own, so she waits until it’s off to slip the t-shirt over Quinn’s head.

Once it’s on, Santana slowly takes a seat next to her, and after a few minutes of silence, Quinn speaks up for the first time since they were out on the street in front of the bar.

“San, I…” the words barely come out, a mix of rasp and phlegm, and Santana’s quick to shake her head.

“Don’t worry about it. Seriously.”

“It was uncalled for,” is all Quinn continues with. Her voice is laced with an amount of regret that Santana can feel in her bones, so she distracts herself by tearing off some squares of toilet paper and wiping at the eyeliner staining Quinn’s cheeks.

“Maybe a little,” she shrugs. “But nothing untrue. I needed to hear it.” 

Quinn sniffles before stilling Santana’s hands and letting her head drop again onto Santana’s shoulders. “Beth is three today.”

The words settle onto Santana’s chest with the weight of the past three years, and it suddenly makes sense why Quinn’s been acting so off today. Santana never held an inkling of an idea that this day was so hard for her every year, but then she realizes it’s probably because they were both too preoccupied with competing with each other for Santana to ever ask. 

So instead of saying anything, she just reaches into Quinn’s lap and clasps their hands together. Quinn squeezes back gently.

*

The fact that Quinn brushes her teeth three times before they get into bed is a weirdly comforting indication she’s well on her way to sobering up. Santana nearly passes out the second her head touches her pillow. But then,

“Santana?”

“Mhm?”

“Can you hold my hand again?”

“Yeah, Q.”

* 

She only lets go the next morning, when it’s 10am and she can’t fall back asleep. Her gaze is fixated on Quinn, who’s thoroughly make-up free and mouth slightly agape and hair sticking out all around her pillow and everything Santana just might love about her. Even if she’s taking up too much space on the bed.

She tosses on a pair of sweatpants and a hoodie before heading to the CVS two doors down for Advil, a cupcake, and a candle. 

“Breakfast?” the cashier teases as he rings her up, and Santana just entertains him with a shrug. 

“One of those days.”

*

Quinn’s slowly sauntering out of the bathroom when she returns. “You scared me,” she frowns, pausing in the doorway to stretch her arms. “CVS? What’d you get?”

“Remedies,” Santana just says. “How are you feeling, party animal?”

“Shut up,” Quinn giggles. “I’m fine. Just need some air, I think. Sit with me on the balcony?”

Santana nods, and she brings the CVS bag with her while Quinn grabs them blankets.

“I feel disgusting,” Quinn mumbles as she sinks into one of the lounge chairs. 

Santana can’t help but laugh at the memory of a drunk Quinn begging Santana to match her shot for shot. “I gotta say, Fabray, you out-performed me last night.”

Quinn just shakes her head, seemingly at herself. “In more ways than one, I bet.”

Santana tries not to swallow too deeply, unsure if she has the emotional capability to even think about unpacking that right now. So, instead, “I got some stuff.” She pulls out the bottle of Advil, followed by the cupcake and the candle. 

“What the- it’s, like, not even noon yet.”

“It’s not for _you_. Or, we can eat it later. Whatever. But I got it for Beth.”

Quinn snaps her head up from where it’s half-buried into the blanket she’s nuzzled in. “What?”

Santana scoots closer to the edge of her chair to take the cupcake out of its packaging and delicately stick the candle in the middle. “I know you don’t get to celebrate with her every year, but I figured you could still make a wish for her or something.”

“Santana,” Quinn breathes out, seemingly in awe. When Santana pulls a lighter out of the pocket of her sweatpants, “Hey, why do you have that? Are you smoking again?”

“Not important right now, Q.” Santana’s unable to hide her eye roll before she lights the candle easily. “Well? You got anything?”

Quinn nods immediately, positioning herself in front of the cupcake and shutting her eyes. After a while, tears start to silently track down her cheeks, and she traps her bottom lip between her teeth to keep it from quivering. When her eyes flit back open, she takes a deep breath and blows out the candle. Fuck if the sight doesn’t choke up Santana, too.

“You ok?” she eventually asks, and Quinn shoots her this smile Santana probably doesn’t deserve.

Quinn rises from her seat moments later—is she _seriously_ going back inside now?—then she asks, “Could you come here for a sec?”

If she’s about to institute a pat-down for cigarettes or something, then Santana’s totally laying it on her, but when she stands up, Quinn just steps forward and tightly wraps her arms around her.

…Ok, a little unexpected, but she’ll roll with it. 

“Hug me back, San,” Quinn murmurs into Santana’s neck, and Santana just chuckles, her shoulders relaxing before doing just that. “Thank you. I mean it.”

Santana squeezes tighter, because like hell if she’ll be the first to let go.

*

Neither of them are in the best shape to drive, so they extend their stay in Boston another night and spend the rest of the day ordering room service and watching whatever movies the hotel TV is playing for free. (Santana’s never seen _Elf_ in any month that wasn’t December, but there’s a first time for everything.)

It’s perfect, in a way. As in, maybe Santana was always meant to burrow away in swanky hotels with Quinn Fabray.

She falls into another nap during some corny murder mystery filmed in prehistoric times, and when she stirs awake an hour later, Quinn’s eyes are glued to the TV while her fingers are curled around the sheets in anticipation. “Did they find the killer?” she asks, half-asleep, and Quinn immediately places a hand on Santana’s arm, as if to shush her.

 _“Shh_ , not yet,” she mutters, but her hand stays where it is, her pointer finger absentmindedly rubbing against the side of Santana’s wrist, and Santana—

Santana just hopes the plot of the movie drags on for longer than it needs to.

And it ends up doing just that—it drags and it drags until it doesn’t, until Quinn’s practically flailing underneath the covers and accidentally kicking Santana’s leg. “Oh my God,” she just muses, in awe. “Wasn’t that such a good movie?”

“It was really good, Q,” Santana mumbles, all while her eyes closed. There’s no use in disagreeing with Quinn when she’s in one of her weird little movie highs unless you’re ready to launch into a full analysis on film and writing and cinematography. 

They’re laughing together at a Kardashian rerun some hours later when Quinn turns down the volume of the TV and rolls onto her side to face the middle of the bed. 

“Hey, I wanted to see if Kourtney was gonna let Scott come to the birthday party,” Santana frowns, but Quinn just says, 

“I was out of line last night.”

... _Oh._ So _this_ conversation is happening right now. 

“I shouldn’t have brought up all that stuff. That wasn’t fair of me, and I’m sorry.” A short pause. “It’s not like I’ve been the perfect friend to you, either.” There’s this look of genuine guilt on her face that Santana can’t really handle, so her gaze lowers to where Quinn’s fingers are fumbling with the TV remote. 

“We’ve both messed up in a lot of ways, huh?” she chuckles softly, an attempt to diffuse some of the tension. Quinn allows her a small smile. “I’m sorry, too,” she adds, and because their minds have always been on the same wavelength, there’s no need for her to elaborate any further. 

Quinn nods, and she swallows deeply before murmuring, “I also…” She irritates her bottom lip between her teeth, clearly stalling. “I meant every word I said.”

Santana just blinks at her, unsure of what direction this is going in. 

“Like, at the bar. Right before we left.” 

After a few long moments, Santana feels somersaults in her stomach. Or her heart, or brain—she can’t totally tell. She’s currently losing the ability to think clearly. _“Oh.”_ She’s unable to contain a growing smirk as Quinn’s cheeks start to blush. Furiously. “You mean…”

“Santana.” Quinn breathes out her name like it’s the eighth wonder of the world, closing some of the space between them. “Will you kiss me?”

They’re even closer now, close enough so that Santana can reach out and cup the side of Quinn’s face. “When in Boston, huh,” she teases. Then she leans in.

*

Kissing Quinn is... _well._

It’s nobody’s business, the way Quinn’s lips feel when Santana’s parting them with her tongue, the way Quinn sighs into her mouth, like it’s where she’s always belonged, the way—

*

“ _Why_ didn’t we bring this up, like, five days ago?” Santana practically pants attempting to rid of Quinn’s shorts while the blonde is going to town on her neck, then on each of her breasts. “Seriously, we could’ve-”

“Santana, you need to hurry up and fuck me.”

*

They’re exhausted by the time 1am rolls around, hair matted and chests heaving and Santana lightly scratching at Quinn’s scalp. 

“I had a feeling it was only a matter of time, you know, before you caved,” she quips. “What with being with my sexy self 24/7 for the past week.”

“God, you talk so much,” Quinn deadpans, but she’s pulling Santana closer anyway.

*

Their next stop is Providence, Rhode Island, and while Santana fills up the gas tank the next morning, Quinn taps away on her phone to buy them admission tickets to the RISD museum. 

Neither of them bring up last night and what it means moving forward, but things feel perfectly fine and they hold hands for half of the car ride, so maybe for the time being, there’s not much to say on the matter. 

*

Lunch is at some bougie seafood restaurant in downtown Providence, because it’s their last full day of the trip, and why the hell not? They split shrimp cocktails and oysters and decide before they order appetizers that they want to have British accents—just because. Santana even takes it a step further and wears her sunglasses during dessert despite the fact they’re eating inside, and Quinn suppresses a laugh when other patrons getting escorted to their tables glance at Santana trying to figure out if she’s some celebrity.

It’s chaotic and nonsensical and Santana secretly hopes it never ends. 

It does, though, and as they walk over to the museum arm-in-arm, she says, “Maybe you were right about moving somewhere out here. Are you sure you have to go back to school? Because hell, I’ll do it right now. Let’s just move to Rhode Island and not tell anyone.”

Quinn just laughs, nudging her shoulder a little. “C’mon. You know you’d miss everyone too much.” 

“Please, like who?” Santana nearly snorts. When she glances over and Quinn has this unreadable look on her face with an arched eyebrow, she says more seriously, “Don’t answer that.” 

“You don’t even know who I was gonna say!”

“Yes, I do, and it sure as hell wasn’t Kurt and Rachel.” 

Quinn sighs. “Sorry. I wasn’t trying to get at anything,” she reassures. When she doesn’t say anything else, Santana leans her head down to brush against Quinn’s shoulder, partially shielding herself from the wind but also partially telling Quinn that, yeah, whatever. Not a big deal. 

In fact, she doesn’t even _know_ what she’d say to Brittany were the topic of her and Quinn’s newly ever-changing dynamic were to even come up. Fuck buddies? Dating? Best friends? Somehow all three?

It probably doesn’t even matter, she tells herself, because she doesn’t owe Brittany anything, and besides, she’s probably too busy spending her time with the guy she got married to when she thought the world was ending. 

_Ugh._ No, she’s not mad at Britt. Of course she isn’t, it’s just that—

“Stop thinking too hard,” Quinn urges softly, and Santana’s spiraling thoughts immediately come to a halt. She hates when Quinn reads her mind.

“It’s so creepy when you do that.”

“Yeah, I know.”

*

“This is so cool.” An eager grin flashes across Quinn’s features once they finally make it inside the museum—much like a small child when they walk into a candy store—and the mere look on her face when she tugs on the sleeve of Santana’s coat causes excitement to flutter in Santana’s chest, too. 

“Yeah,” she agrees, then, and she lets Quinn drag her through each room as she marvels at nearly every exhibit.

“I really like this one,” she’ll say every once in a while, a small smile gracing her lips as she reads the tiny excerpts that explain the art itself (because apparently people actually do that), and Santana will just nod her head while the back of her mind plots whether or not there’s any way to take everything from this museum and give it all to Quinn to keep forever. 

She can’t come up with anything that doesn’t involve her arrest, so she settles for taking pictures on her phone instead. ( _"Q_ _, get your fine ass in front of that oil painting before I smack it over there myself.” “Stop that. But ok, make sure you get the whole thing in the back."_ )

It’s kind of amazing, watching Quinn’s cool and calculated resolve give way to things like nonsensical art— _“It’s not nonsensical, San, it’s just abstract.”_ —to the point that maybe Santana finds herself appreciating the stylings of Siebren Versteeg, too. Or, whoever the hell Quinn is raving about right now.

The two of them walk into in this immersive video exhibit sometime later; different time-lapses of ordinary people doing ordinary things are projected onto each of the walls that surround them, and Santana’s busy studying her and Quinn’s silhouettes in front of one of the projector screens when she feels gentle lips press against her cheek.

“Thank you,” Quinn says breathily, and they’re the only ones in the room, so she plants another quick kiss to Santana’s lips. 

“For what?” Santana smiles a little, because she guesses that’s the effect Quinn has on her now.

“I don’t know,” Quinn admits, laughing almost disbelievingly. Like she’s not entirely sure where the words came from. “Everything, I think.”

“Hm. Been waiting on you to say that for a while now,” Santana jokes, and Quinn’s eye roll is light as she pokes Santana’s side. “Kidding. But you should probably kiss me again to really show your gratitude.”

Quinn licks her lips shyly, but before she can lean in again, another couple strides curiously into the room. She starts to laugh when annoyance flashes across Santana’s features. “Later,” she husks against Santana’s ear, and Santana swallows deeply.

Yeah, she’ll wait.

*

An hour later, they’re back outside listening to a street busker singing songs and playing guitar. He’s a bit pitchy but he looks like one of the art students, so he’s garnered a sizable crowd—Quinn and Santana included.

“He’s, like...just ok, right?” Quinn mutters quietly.

Santana nods her head. “Oh, for sure.”

It’s then that she notices their identical stances; backs standing tall, shoulders pulled back, arms folded across their chest, sunglasses perched on their noses. She marvels to herself a little; they really are mean for no reason, sometimes.

“I need to pee. Hold my purse?” Quinn sighs next to her, and Santana purses her lips.

“What am I, your bitch?” she retorts, but she’s already taking the bag from Quinn’s hands anyway. 

“Thank you for coming out, folks,” the performer starts to speak, and Santana doesn’t even try to stop her eye roll in its tracks; he’s about to sound like Finn or Blaine before they give some big speech everyone pretends to listen to. “Just a reminder that any and all song requests are welcome.” He pauses before his next song to grab his water bottle, and in a moment of spontaneity, Santana steps forward and taps his arm.

“Hi,” she greets with a sickeningly sweet smile, one that is eagerly returned. “You see my friend over there? The stuck-up looking blonde with the cute butt.” She points a finger towards Quinn, who’s still making her way to the outdoor restrooms. “I wanna embarrass her a little. When she gets back, could you dedicate a song to her?”

“Sure,” the guy laughs, slightly confused but onboard nonetheless. “Any specific song?”

For a flash of a moment, Santana almost spits out some track from their glee club days that’s bound to evoke some emotion out of the girl; but then again, that emotion is more bound to be negative than positive, so she settles for being nice. “She likes those age-old John Mayer crooners. Beats me, but she goes crazy over them.”

“Ok. Yeah, sure,” the performer nods, and Santana obligingly drops a few dollar bills in his guitar case before returning to her spot in the audience.

Quinn returns a few songs later, thoroughly applying what looks like could be her second layer of hand sanitizer. “Public restrooms are so gross.”

“Have I ever told you how down-to-earth you are?” Santana quips, and Quinn just responds by nudging her shoulder and taking her purse back. 

“Whatever. Should we go?”

 _“Alright,”_ the busker speaks up in perfect timing before Santana has the chance to respond. “By special request, this next song is dedicated to the young lady in the back.” He gestures _directly_ towards Quinn, whose eyes go wide and whose cheeks blossom a shade of red that shouldn’t even be attainable on a human being’s face. 

Everyone in the audience has their head craned backwards to shoot her a glance, and Santana uses the hand that’s not clamped over her mouth to grab her phone from her coat pocket.

“Santana, what is _wrong_ with you?” Quinn bites through her teeth, a hard look on her face as she tries to swipe Santana’s phone out of her hand. “This isn’t funny.”

“C’mon, Lucy Q,” Santana laughs teasingly, pressing the _record_ button on her phone as the performer starts playing the first few notes to Gravity. “You love this song.” And she _does_ ; it’s one of her favorites, so in reality, she should be thanking Santana for this super romantic gesture.

Quinn’s jaw remains clenched, but her irritation (and embarrassment) seem to slowly seep out of her with every line sung. “It _is_ a really good song,” she admits to the camera of Santana’s phone, and Santana reaches out to poke at her cheeks until she’s smiling. Just barely. “You’re the worst.”

“I know,” Santana concedes with an easy shrug. “Now listen and enjoy; I spent big bucks on this.”

*

The sun’s still up, so instead of walking back to the car, Quinn and Santana walk over to the nearby Burnside Park, laying down in the grass and looking up at the clouds.

“I read somewhere that the key to happiness is to look up at the sky seven times a day,” Quinn says, the edges of her lips curling. 

“Yeah? You think it’s true?”

“Sometimes.” Quinn’s voice sounds nearly as gentle as it did sophomore year, back when she had a growing belly and no permanent home. Santana almost flinches at the association, in part because it brings her back to Quinn exploding at her on the streets of Boston. 

To prevent herself from falling down a mental rabbit hole, she does as Quinn says and focuses her gaze on the sky until all she can see is blue, blue, blue. “This is the same sky they’re looking up at in Lima,” she murmurs, and she’s not even sure why.

“I wish I would’ve looked up more when I was there,” Quinn thinks out loud, and Santana absently plucks blades of grass from their roots.

“Do you think things would be different?” she asks, and in her peripherals, she sees Quinn shake her head.

“No. But maybe _I’d_ be different.”

At those words, Santana rolls onto her side so she’s facing her friend— _this girl_...who she’s both hated and loved more than anyone, sometimes all at once. Q. After a few moments, Quinn faces her, too. “I like who you are,” she says quietly.

Quinn reaches out to loosely thread their fingers together, and Santana looks up again.

*

After a while, Quinn tugs on Santana’s arm and pulls them towards this huge fountain that stands in the center of the park.

“It’s the Bajnotti fountain,” Quinn tells her, and Santana arches a brow.

“You just knew that off the top of your head?”

Quinn expertly ignores the comment while fishing a penny out of her pocket and placing it into one of Santana’s palms. “Make a wish, San.”

“What?” Santana doesn’t _mean_ to laugh; it just kind of comes out, but Quinn pays it no mind. “C’mon, Q, let’s go get dinner-”

“Nuh-uh.” Quinn pulls her back by the coat pocket when she tries to inch away from the edge of the fountain, and the look on her face—an expression that Santana associates with Cheerios practices and occasional glee club rehearsals—says that they’re not going anywhere. Sometimes she forgets that Quinn is equally as stubborn as she is. “I made my wish yesterday, so you should get to do the same.”

Santana rolls her eyes, but there’s no actual malice behind it, and Quinn knows that. “Fine,” she says, gentler than she means to.

She closes her eyes, just like Quinn did in Boston, and her fingers rub so much at the penny she’s holding that her skin is probably reeks of copper. And she wishes...she wishes for her and Brittany to navigate a new normal because even though they won’t be getting back together, she still wants— _needs_ —the other girl in her life, to some capacity. She wishes for her abuela to love her again. She wishes for the glee club to win Regionals (which reminds her she needs to text Tina to schedule their next monthly gossip session). She even wishes for Rachel and Kurt to be having a good week—and honestly, they better be enjoying it before she barges back into the loft in all her glory.

Then she thinks about Quinn; the person who, Santana will begrudgingly admit, might understand her better than anyone ever has. Better than anyone ever will. She wishes that Quinn’s knee fully recovers, that Quinn realizes she deserves so much more than hormone-driven boys and married professors, that Quinn will stay in her life because Santana needs her just as much as she needs Brittany.

For Quinn, she wishes everything.

Then she opens her eyes, sighs deeply, and tosses the penny into the water. 

“You ready to go?” Quinn asks next to her, and Santana nods, wrapping an arm around her friend’s shoulders.

“I wished that you would pay for dinner,” she jokes, and Quinn tips her head back in amused laughter.

“Did you now?” she teases. “Good thing wishes don’t come true when you say them out loud.”

*

They kinda blew out a ton of money on lunch, so their last dinner together is sushi from a local grocery store, eaten in the comfort of their motel room.

“I already have, like, three assignments due on Monday,” Quinn muffles through bites of her sashimi. Santana smirks, because there’s not quite a sight like Quinn Fabray going against all her mother believes in and talking with her mouth full.

“That sucks,” she dabs her chopsticks in some wasabi before taking a bite of her own roll. “Remind me to check the train schedule tomorrow.”

Quinn frowns a little at that. “You usually stay Sunday nights. I only have afternoon classes on Monday.”

Santana shrugs. “You should probably be working on your assignments anyway.” She wonders if the words sound as foreign as they feel—her usual protocol for when Quinn’s doing homework in her dorm room is to pester her until she agrees to anything that involves them doing something together. Quinn must take notice of this, because she’s shooting Santana this odd look. So, in an effort to spin the route of the conversation, Santana adds, “Why, you gonna miss me, Fabray?”

“Maybe I will,” Quinn says, truthfully, and the admission in itself is almost enough to make Santana’s heart beat a little faster. Either that, or there’s _way_ too much wasabi in this bite.

*

Unlike the first night of their trip, Quinn definitely does _not_ complain about Santana taking too long in the shower. In fact, all she says regarding that is _more, fuck, more_ as Santana’s face finds a home between pale, silky thighs.

*

However, it did take a bit of convincing.

“What if you get soap in your eye or something?”

“I’ll be _fine_ , Q,” Santana lowers herself—carefully, so as to not slip—and she licks her lips as one of Quinn’s legs hooks over her shoulder. “Besides, I think that’s a chance I’m willing to take.”

*

They roll into bed that night wearing the matching t-shirts they bought from Portsmouth, and instead of spooning, they curl towards each other so that the tips of their noses are inches apart. Santana can barely make out the contours of Quinn’s face in the dark, but she knows that she’s there, and that’s enough.

“Did you have a good week?” Quinn asks her, and Santana chuckles, a hand reaching out to thread her fingers through damp hair.

“Yeah, I did,” she whispers, and her eyes flutter closed when she feels Quinn’s thumb slip under the hem of her shirt and brush against her hip bone. She knows the movement isn’t to instigate anything, but something low in her belly still swirls in response to the tenderness of the touch. Before Valentine’s Day, everything between her and Quinn was all brash and sharp—their words, their actions, their looks—and now they’re...whatever _this_ is. A quiet sigh escapes her when Quinn’s lips press against the tip of her nose. “Q,” is the last thing she mumbles before she falls into sleep.

*

“Fuck, Quinn. _Oh,_ right there,” is the first thing she groans when she’s awoken the next morning with long, skilled fingers dipped into her panties. 

*

They make a slight detour to a breakfast diner, because New Haven is only less than two hours away, and neither of them are necessarily itching to get back.

“Don’t beat my high score,” Quinn murmurs. They’re both hunched over her phone in the center of the table as Santana kicks absolute _ass_ in this level of Candy Crush.

“Do I have to remind you that passing levels is a _good_ thing?”

“Yeah, I _know_ that, but it’s not as fulfilling if you pass it and I don’t.”

“Fine. I’ll save the last move for you.” 

Annabelle, their waitress, clears her throat timidly before setting their coffees down. “Were you guys ready to order your food or did you need a few more minutes?”

Santana’s too sucked into the level to reply, but luckily, Quinn knows her breakfast order, so she rattles off their entrees before tugging their menus out from underneath her phone and handing them to Annabelle. “Thank you so much,” she says graciously, and Anabelle nods before stalking off to the kitchen.

“You asked for extra strawberries, right?” Santana asks without looking up from Quinn’s phone. 

“Yes, San. Now stop playing and pay attention to me.”

Santana rolls her eyes and hands Quinn her phone back when there’s only one more move left to complete the level, and Quinn passes it happily before slipping the device back into her purse. “You sure you’re good to drive the rest of the way?”

“Mhm. Am I bringing you to the train station?”

Santana nods, a somewhat regretful smile playing at her lips. “Yeah, I should probably get back to the loft. I have to prepare for a couple job interviews this week. You can still come up next weekend, though, right?”

“Yeah, I’ll text you when I’m done with classes on Friday,” Quinn says, taking a long pull of her coffee. “I didn’t know you had job interviews.”

“It’s not a big deal,” Santana shrugs, fiddling with the salt shaker that stands between them. “Just part-time positions at a couple coffee shops in the area.”

At that, Quinn arches an eyebrow. “Hey, that is a big deal,” she says, gently. Santana just shrugs again, laughing a little.

“I mean, I guess.”

“Santana.” Quinn reaches forward to halt the movement of the salt shaker. “I’m proud of you. That’s awesome.”

The smile that twitches against the corner of Santana’s mouth is kinda silly, but yeah, it’s there. Something about Quinn being proud of her makes Santana feel like she’s doing _something_ right—maybe it’s because they don’t ever really say things like that to each other, or because Quinn never tells Santana anything she doesn’t mean. Whatever the reason may be, it affects her. “Thanks.”

“Maybe if you get it, you can finally treat me out to a nice dinner.”

Santana laughs and kicks her gently under the table. “Oh, in your _dreams,_ blondie.”

*

They get stuck in some heavy stop-and-go traffic just outside of Cranston, Rhode Island, and Santana’s kind of grateful for it because when it’s slow enough, Quinn takes a hand off the steering wheel to hold Santana’s hand over the center console.

“I would probably...fuck Jessica Chastain, marry Jessica Alba, kill Jessica Biel.”

Santana’s mouth goes agape. “Chastain over Biel? What the hell is wrong with you?”

Quinn laughs as her thumb rubs against Santana’s knuckles. “I don’t know, there’s just something so intelligent about her that’s kinda hot.” She pauses for a moment, chewing on her bottom lip. “And you know what?”

“Hm?”

“It just _really_ turns me on,” Quinn draws out, in that low voice she knows makes Santana’s knees buckle. There’s this devilish smirk on her face that makes Santana want to put her insane Cheerios flexibility to good use and take Quinn right then and there, but there’s no way the windows are tinted dark enough for that. There’s also the whole safety thing. 

She clears her throat and dips her head down so Quinn doesn’t get the satisfaction to see the flush in her cheeks. “Ok. Next round, please.”

*

There’s this pattern, Santana has noticed. It’s like, every sweet moment they share is shortly followed by a sour one in order to maintain universal balance. 

“Will you hurry up? Your entire butt is in my face,” Quinn complains, while Santana digs around the backseat for the pack of Airhead Xtremes she bought at the gas station this morning. 

“Wow, how dare you? My eyes are up here.”

She finds it eventually, buried under one of her sweatshirt—she’s not totally sure how it ended up there, but her duffle bag is somewhat of a magician’s hat—and the next hour is spent enveloped in a comfortable silence, save for Quinn’s playlist crooning softly from the car speakers.

*

New Haven is bright and sunny when Quinn pulls into one of the parking spots at the train station, and while Santana grabs her bag from the backseat, Quinn steps out to stretch her legs. They meet in front of the hood of the car, and all of a sudden, Santana’s feet don’t know how to un-plant themselves from the asphalt. 

“We survived,” Quinn says lightly, and Santana shakes her head, entertained. 

“Yeah,” she laughs, then before she realizes it, she’s pinching the ends of Quinn’s bougie-ass shawl to tug their bodies closer. “Miss you,” she mumbles, even though Quinn is still right in front of her. 

The corners of Quinn’s eyes crinkle when she smiles. “You’re getting soft on me, Lopez,” she teases, but one of her hands slides up to curl around the nape of Santana’s neck nonetheless. “Miss you, too.”

Santana’s bottom lip worries itself between her teeth. “What’s going on here? With you and me?” she asks, softly. It wasn’t her _plan_ necessarily to define their relationship in the middle of a train station parking lot, but she needs to know what it means that she wants to kiss Quinn out in the open like this so that everyone else knows that they _can’t._

Quinn lets out this sigh, shrugging with a slight smile. “We ruin everything we touch,” she mumbles, and to anyone else, the words may sound a bit harsh, but Santana understands completely. Still, she inches their faces closer together, and when Quinn doesn’t protest, she captures Quinn’s bottom lip between both of her own. 

Quinn sucks just enough to elicit a light pressure, and after a few seconds, Santana’s the one to reluctantly pull away because if she lets this go on for too long, she’ll miss the train. Which, you know, may not be the _worst_ thing ever, but. Still. 

She and Quinn—they’re something... _new_. Different, and golden, and what no else could ever understand. They’re somehow everything Santana needs right now; far too encompassing to be able to define in one word. 

So when Santana texts Quinn the second she’s back at the loft to let her know she got there safely, when Quinn FaceTimes her before each of her interviews to wish her luck ( _“Aren’t you in class right now?” “I told my professor I had to use the restroom. Besides, I already understand the lecture. I read a few chapters ahead in the book.”),_ when Santana waits for her eagerly on the train platform the following Friday and Quinn shoots her this smile that’s warm enough to fill the space between New Haven and Manhattan before shyly pressing their lips together, when Santana actually _does_ take Quinn out to a nice dinner in the city, they don’t necessarily refer to themselves as anything definitive.

If Santana were ever asked how her and Quinn’s relationship _truly_ feels—and she _is_ asked, actually, by Rachel one morning when she and Santana are both in front of the coffee maker and Santana’s bed sheet is pulled up against a sleeping Quinn’s bare chest—she would shrug a shoulder and say, “It’s like looking up at the sky seven times a day.”

*

“I think I’m even more confused than before.”

“I know. Now keep it down, Berry, I’m going back to sleep.”

**Author's Note:**

> I kind of ignored logistics such as how the hell two 19 year olds can possibly afford all those meals and motel hopping LOL, but that's the beauty of fanfiction I guess. And my reasoning for the timing of Beth's birthday is that season 2 and 3's Regionals episodes aired in March.
> 
> The title is from the song Older Than I Am by Lennon Stella, the lyrics of which I think apply to both Quinn and Santana and everything they've been through.
> 
> Let me know what y'all thought! And as always thank you for reading :)


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